Where The Heart Lives
by cclee123
Summary: An in-depth look at the events following the animated film. Feedback appreciated. :
1. I

The excitement began to wear off within the week.

Wendy Darling, stalwart caretaker and doting sister, dutiful daughter, and hopeless romantic, took to nature's design with a new enthusiasm. She was fast approaching adolescence, a time in every girl's life to make certain changes, the likes of which she grew strangely interested in. It couldn' be explained. It was completely against her character. Since her father's decison to postpone her departure from the nursery, a feeling of progression had come over her.

She no longer felt the longing for worlds of fantasy, the illustrated tales of folklore and the like. Her interests shifted, firstly to her vanity, then to, with much uncertainty, the opposite sex. Kensington's variety of the latter was fastly becoming a fascinating sight.

Naturally, this attracted the attentions of her two younger brothers, Michael and John. What started out as a teasing subject slowly became a real worry amongst the siblings, one that might've threatened their chances of continuing their favorite routine: most of all being, story time. Their sister was ever changing, becoming the model image of their very grown-up mother.

Wendy herself, by nature, had always took to Mary far more affectionately than her father, who's awkward disposition towards 'female business" was a common trait to be expected. Their bond was the enduring reason why the girl had for so long refused to grow up, instead portraying the role of eternal youth for a woman who's years were rapidly passing. Mary Darling worshipped her eldest to a fault, and the prospect of watching her advance into adulthood was as much a relief as a disappointment. It seemed almost the end to an endearing relationship.

Needless to say, Wendy's maternal behavior never evaporated. She remained very much the helping hand of her brothers, who's faces she washed and mouths she fed when time called for it. John took up a variety studies with which she assisted, grinning at the idea of supporting a budding Darwin. He would often puzzle over fabricated theories, weighing them with his limited reason. Michael, to be sure, was fastly learning the values of sharing and honesty. He was nearly aged six.

All of this, she supposed, was the natural order of things. John would leave his fascination with sea voyage behind, and Michael would all but forget he ever wore Indian war paint on his cheeks. She grew comfortable with the scenario.

He never left her mind, though.

When she sat at her mothers mirror, testing perfumes and arranging her hair, trying on evening gowns as apposed to afternoon attire, she couldn't help but make a comparison to the lace and cuff-linked world of hers, and the magical wilderness of her young heart. The thought of young boys donning animal skins, claiming eternal play as their life's endeavor, the close friend's of a tribe of indians..

She couldn't entirely rake the images aside. She may've fumbled with the names of her young neighbor's,

_Tom, the one who asked me to tea, no, Edward, Charles is the one I met only last week, Henry, Henry is...Howard?_

But when asked by herself, _Wendy, when were you happiest? _what other answer could there possibly be? What could measure up to the experience of taking flight over your very rooftop, thereby creating a new perspective of where you live?

Where your heart lives?

As exciting as it is, this new, awkward feeling of physical reaction to young men, and how fatiguing it could be to learn proper etiquette, nothing, no sir, would be that place.

Never Land was filed away, deep in the back of a filing cabinet, which was then thrown into a vast ocean, resting at the bottom of her subconcious. The trouble was, she still knew it's precise location.

And so she couldn't help but wonder, long after she'd placed the contents of her mother's vanity in their designated places, gotten ready for bed, tucked her brothers in for the night, and finally wrapped herself securely under the sheets..

What must it be like?

He was only her same age.

But _eternally._

To be caught in such hiatus for always. To be on the verge of nature's flipside, but never wavering. He didn't _seem _too concerned with such things.

And where was he? ...What could've happened to him?

In the latest hours of the night, when the faintest noises proved the loudest ( John's restless dreams, Michael's soft snoring, and Nana's occasional shifts) she would indulge her most private thoughts.

She would entertain scenarios where he'd come back, sometimes ever young, sometimes matured. His hair a dull, burnt red, his dimples prominent. Her heart would expand in her (ample) chest, and she would behave romantically, or unassuming.

The bare truth was that while she gained considerable attention by day, gentleman-in-training constantly at her side, Wendy found that none of this compared to the moments in which she was...

...in the arms of her Peter.

And so she would whisk the notions aside, and drift into a very proper sleep, in her very proper bed.


	2. II

He didn't understand it.

Because of this, he didn't like it. Nope, not one bit. Not one bit at _all._

Not a whole lot bothered him, or got in his way. Was he not a fearless Lost Boy, gosh, their leader? The thorn in ol' Codfish Hook's side, and 'Chief Flyin' Eagle of the neighboring Indian tribe? His friends told stories about him, were always eager to _hear _the latest of his adventures. How he'd cut off the Captain's hand, thrown it to the crocs, (everyone _loved _that one,) or how he'd saved Tiger Lily from the raging tide closing in, with no way out?

Everyone thought he was wonderful, the greatest. The mermaids, down at the lagoon, the chief's daughter, the Boys, Tink. He was the whole of Never Land's hero, the one who never failed to save the day.

So why was it, when life couldn't get much better, that he felt this funny, strange way? He often came to it, especially during the morning, when everyone would collapse from the previous night's fun. Cubby would snore, real loud-like, the twins would start a kicking battle, notice, and calm. Tink would daintily retire, bidding good-night with a big smile.

Girls _always _smiled at them in that goofy way. He didn't think too much of it, because it didn't cause any problems. Well, there were occasional fights.

He would examine an arrowhead absently, sharpen it in time with his racing thoughts, until, eventually, it would snap. Tossing into the pile of others, grunting, he'd then lean back and think some more. He'd think about what would happen the next day, and the day after that, and how nothing much changes. Maybe this was boredom.

No, it was too bothersome to be just boredom.

Could be he was restless. Restless, in Never Land?

_Never._

It'd been awhile since he'd visited the tribe, but he could do that any ol' day. Or the girls down at the lagoon as well.

The lagoon..

The last he'd been there, he'd brought Wendy along.

He stopped. _Wendy._

This was about Wendy.

He didn't think too much about girls.

Because there weren't any like Wendy in Never Land. _There's _the problem.

But this didn't help. Why would he think about her? She was only a girl, and only their mother. True, she told great stories, and she was very nice.

She _smelled_ nice, he thought. And looked nice. And even sounded nice, though she talked an awful lot. What else was there?

For once, he was thinking hard, really trying to figure this out.

_Well...I like her hair._

He chuckled. He could practically hear her now: _"Oh, Peter _really! _Is that all?"_

But it's true, Wendy. Honest. Your hair is...What's the word? Pretty. It's soft, and it was tied into those little curls. And your eyes. I can remember getting a good look at them, that day when I saved you from the men. They were a deep blue, just like the sea you nearly fell into. I'd saved you _again. _And, well, I sort of liked how your skin felt. You were warm, and our noses were touching when we laughed.

He listened, making sure the boys were fast asleep, ridiculously afraid that they could hear his private thoughts. He'd made absolutely sure that all was dead quiet before continuing. Let's see.

It's been so long. What if you've changed? What if you don't laugh the way you used to? Do you.._look _the same?

It was at this point that the heroic, fearless Peter Pan started to get an even _funnier _feeling. He knew what it was to feel sick, and he definitely knew what it was to feel hungry. But this? He placed a hand to his chest. This was like..

_I think I like this feeling, he decided. Whatever it is. And it's just for Wendy. _In this feeling, his heart sped up, he started to feel a bit hot, and he wanted to do things that he'd never tell his men. But enough of that.

Yeah, Wendy's pretty alright. And not at all like the mermaids. Or Tink, really. He liked the way she was to the Lost Boys, how she'd sang them to sleep. She should've stayed. He wouldn't've minded if she sung every night.

He could use that right night. Because right now, he really missed her.


	3. III

"We'll be lucky to see our 18th years married off to respectable gentlemen."

"You mean to say, dear Margeret, that _you'll _be lucky if..."

"Oh, Georgette, don't be unkind. After all, you may have dear Henry clutching at your apron strings but _I, _however,-"

"Have the love of a penniless writer and _everything _to show for it! Of _course, _Margeret-"

"I only _meant"-_

"Yes, do tell us what you mean!"

And on it went. She traced the rim of her teacup absently, all but oblivious to the idle chatter of her present company. Occasionally, she would catch snippets of what could pass for a relatable topic, something that might even evoke a passionate reply or addition. But before long it was swallowed in the overbearing jaws of insipid discussion. She joined her piers, it seemed, every afternoon routinely for this, if only for this, the need for structure and interaction. Margeret provided updates for her precarious entanglements. Georgette took the opportunity to contradict with biting conviction. Edith, for her part, would keep a score of sorts for each subtle triumph via wit between the two girls. Sometimes they discussed the difficulty of french against arithmetic. Sometimes it was the preposterous behavior of an older sibling. Young men were their favorite, and for this, Wendy was never completely uninterested.

As of this moment, the young ladies were discussing behavior conducive for the role of future husband. The subject began with the imprudence of Georgette versus Margeret's esteemed ideals.

"How could it possibly prosper? With nothing to his name, nothing for you to _possibly _build the foundation of a home on, it would crumble, Georgette, positively crumble!"

"We have love," the other girl said in a low tone. "As such, we can create miracles."

Margeret huffed. Romantic sentiment always created a stalemate.

All eyes turned to Edith, whose dreamy expression all but favored Georgette.

She seized the opportunity to continue. "With love," she grinned ,"we could roll in splendor, Fred and I. We'll raise children in the wild. Indonesia, maybe. A marvelous accomodation. They'll play in filth, barbaric at once, and dear the next."

And at this, Wendy smiled. _Splendor indeed. _Children in animal skins, bear and raccoon and fox. Never to know the weight of childhood's inevitable deadline. Dancing around roaring campfires to the beat of indian drums. Thick haired young boys in over-sized headresses. Said young boys omitting a roosters crow.

A giggle escaped her.

This, the first and only sound to be heard from Wendy in weeks, seized the attention of the other girls. It was painfully interesting.

"Wendy," Margeret chimed, "How wonderful of you to join us."

"Hm?" Wendy looked about, unprepared for the undivided attention of the table. "Oh. Excuse me."

"No, no," Georgette added, waving her hand daintily," Do let us into your thoughts. We're positively _dying _to know."

She'd never spoken of Never Land before. Not to anyone, save Michael and John. Father and Mother had long since done away with it.

"Well, I.."

"Good heavens," remarked Edith. "She's been holding out on us. Tell us, quickly, what's his name?"

All at once, the the intensity of the tiny tea party became all but unbearable. The girls leaned in, intent on every word. "It can't be true!"

Wendy cast a worried look. It was her fault, she supposed, for attending with such anti-social tendencies. And her company would never dismiss this.

"His name? His name."

"Albert!"

"Arthur!"

"You're all _daft. _I've seen her in the company of James plenty a time enough to know-"

_"No."_ Wendy licked her lips. "His name is Peter."

"Is he prominent?"

"Is it scandalous?"

"Is he strapping?"

All eyes turned to Edith, who's face quickly became the shade of a ripe tomato. "For domestic purposes, of course," she muttered, slinking ever lower in her chair.

Wendy waited for her furious blushing to subside. _How does one go about explaining love for a boy?_

"For the last time, Tink, she's over in Engal-land!"

The pixie cast a disdainful look before turning her back. This'd been one of several, undeserved arguments.

"Waddya want me to say?" The reply was a dismissive wave of her tiny hand, and the shining dust that tumbled from it.

The eternal boy turned on his heel, spite and aggravation part of his puerile temperament. He would not argue with Tinkerbell, of all things. Not for this.

The prospect of stepping out, journeying for parts unknown was fast becoming unavoidable. He needed new sights, new experience..

...old feelings.

_Feelings._

That was the word she, Wendy, had used. What a funny thing for _him _to think of.

He marched out of Hangman's Tree, taking with him both a sense of confusion and purpose.


	4. Four Years Past

Oh, but it was late.

This was hardly conducive for a mother's temperament, she was sure.

Early to bed, early to rise is the dutiful woman's way.

It was just that she could've _sworn_ (or been sorely mistaken) that she'd caught a glimpse of incandescence flickering quite strangely outside her window. And _movement_. So trivial, and suspicious. Really quite bothersome, honestly, if one is expected to meet a decent schedule every hour of their waking life. She was to be sound asleep by 8. She was to be awaken, washed and quite alert by 7. There was breakfast to prepare, lessons to attend, her brother's well-being to administer to..

Nana's medicine to be given (The poor girl was, after all, getting on in years),

Mother's secrets to be kept, (her marriage was in a period of dissolution as it was)

Margeret, and afternoon tea.

And awash as she was, suspended in the spinning demands of these things, she found she couldn't bare to disregard the odd light. A flutter; An overturned slab of consciousness. Painful curiousity, it seemed, gave way to a sort of creeping clarity that would _not_, despite best efforts, show itself in full. The recesses of her heart were suggesting, telling, assuring her that that _thing _she'd been waiting for, that private, obscure musing was there. _It'd come for her_, it teased, it's tone terribly ambiguous and not the least bit adult.

She stalked from her bed, choosing her movements to achieve maximum silence. The boys were only in the neighboring room. _The nursery_, she grinned. She'd become so conscious of the word for watercolor painting of the minds eye that bore alphabet blocks and wooden swords and a rocking horse. A room that once held abandon. Foolishness.

They'd left it behind, her brothers. Whatever notion that might've been had to return to those days had long since been sacred haven of swashbuckling pirarts and native heathens had been completely made over in the image of respectability, accordance. Their _father._

John was known, at 14, for his dogmatic demeanor and appraisal for cynisicm. The sight both attracted the vacuous and shunned the assured.

Michael, her darling youngest of 9, however relentlessly playful, was stubborn to a trying fault.

Neverland was out of their grasp.

And so it wasn't until this very night that she might've forgotten the thought of him.

Taking a clandestine detour by the light of the moon plucked a nerve for Wendy. Her heart cried out for pixie dust; that this couldn't possibly be mistaken for a neighboring household light or streetlamp. This was him. He'd come back.

She was at the window now, her hands resting on the sill, her eyes peering into solid midnight blue and charcoal. She must've let her gaze roam over the expansive landscape of Kensington a dozen times over before she was struck with discouragement. There was nothing.

And then, in a trembling instant, it occurred to Wendy Moira Angela Darling that maybe...

Just, possibly...

She'd invented the entire thing. That young boys soaring over hilltops, whisking children away to paradise was beyond silly and surpassing soundness. That the past few years have worked against her to cement rational thinking, she with unbridled defiance.

But Michael, John..

Could three individuals share the same dream?

She doubted it. She would have to ask John. He made it his business to investigate such things.

And was she mad? Was she displaying unwise conduct? Casual questioning was fast becoming irrational, pitiful, deprecating.

_I'm only a silly girl after all._

_To've possibly imagined that it was so easy._

And in a crumpled heap, she slumped onto the window stool.

For several passing moments she indulged in improper weeping. All of this was improper, it seemed. She was left with these two courses of thinking, she decided between huffs;

She had such a formidable imagination that not only did she believe for years that she'd visited a place called Neverland, but she'd been hoplessly fawning over a boy who could never age. Her face contorted as she felt herself crying harder. With the denial of this, there was still the other;

That even if all we're meant to believe as we mature is tripe, and flying and pixie magic does indeed coalesce with our skeptical universe, that she'd been foolish enough to think she could be acceptable for the spirit of all these things. That when she was rescued thrice, that affection and the prospect of intimacy was the display.

But how could she know, as a girl of 16, that all of these depressing musings were the crucial ingredient to truly growing up? How could she filter fiercest rejection and inadequacy into something true?

She turned back to the window, searching for the familiar formation of clouds. The pirates ship of her dreams. But the sky was clear on this night, and so she dabbed at her eyes and brushed her wrist under nose. What a fool she'd been tonight.

Wendy exhaled, nodding slowly. _This_ _is my life. And heaven help me, I will not succumb completely to duty._ She raised a finger, pressing it against the condensation coated on the window. She produced a small smile, forming letters backwards. A P.

E.

T.

E.

R.

Her brow furrowed. Was this still so silly? Who would see it?

A question mark. A plea.

That's enough.


End file.
